


The Fine Art of Falling Apart

by Chiomi



Series: Get Sharp [8]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, POV Stiles, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-25 07:18:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2613098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiomi/pseuds/Chiomi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a shapeshifter in town two weeks before the election. It can take the form of anyone, they’re pretty sure. It’s bullshit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fine Art of Falling Apart

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Alexis for the beta!
> 
> Title is from [Fine Art](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=awsQgID6vew) by The Limousines.

There’s a shapeshifter in town two weeks before the election. It can take the form of anyone, they’re pretty sure. It’s bullshit.

It takes them way long to figure out what it is, because it keeps changing identities and all they have to go on is the skin from half a forearm that Isaac and Scott found in the woods.

It takes them too long, probably.

Okay, definitely.

Stiles only twigs to it when he wakes up chained in his own basement to stare at his own face. “You _fucker_ ,” he spits.

“Fun little setup you’ve got here, witchet. And all the hotties you’ve surrounded yourself with? I mean, I’ve only tried Danny, so far, but definitely going to work my way through the pack. Those abs, right? After I fuck a few of them, I might be one. I’ve never looked quite as good as your alpha.”

He jerks forward, because he wants to punch in his own stupid awful face, but the chains keep him pretty firmly in place. “They’ll catch you.”

Stiles is deeply certain that his own smile has never looked as frightening. “Eventually they’ll get close. But everyone’s at the election party, aren’t they? All out eating pizza, won’t even notice you’re gone until I’m already there.”

Stiles snarls, and reaches for his pack bonds. It’s worth disrupting his dad’s re-election party to finally get claws into this guy. They’re all - oh. They’re a lot closer than he’d expected. Stiles starts laughing. “You weren’t posturing when you said you’d done something to Danny, were you?”

The shapeshifter isn’t quite aware that everything’s gone wrong, yet, and examines his nails. “Made out with him earlier. No idea why you haven’t tried that before. You’re used to nearly the level of destruction and mayhem I like, but not even getting laid out of it. Pathetic little virgin.”

And, yeah, okay, they’re close enough for the reveal. “Pathetic little virgin with a _pack_ , dipshit.”

Derek, on cue, throws open the basement door and roars.

The shapeshifter’s eyes flick milky yellow, and he hisses.

Derek throws him into the basement wall with a thud. Scott, who’d come in after, starts trying to get Stiles loose. The chain is strong enough to hold up even to werewolf strength, at least in the short-term. As Derek stalks dramatically towards the shapeshifter, now struggling to his feet, Scott asks, “Think your dad will miss this chair?”

“Just get me out.”

Scott twists, and the chair comes apart, spilling Stiles all over. “So how do we -?” Scott darts a look at the shapeshifter. Derek’s holding back, for some stupid reason, but there’s still a cut on pseudo-Stiles’ forearm. It’s not bleeding, but it’s leaking clear fluid and looks a bit like damp peeling sunburn. Thicker, obviously, but not like losing the skin will hurt. It’s kind of gross.

“Ripping out its throat should work,” Stiles says, loud enough that Derek can’t help but hear him.

Derek just throws him a vastly annoyed look, long enough that the shapeshifter has time to dart in and claw at Derek. Stiles didn’t think his nails were sharp enough for that. The shapeshifter dances back even as Derek swipes at him again - claws not even extended, what the fuck.

“I wonder if I’ll be able to shift at will in your skin, or if I’ll just be a dog,” he taunts.

“Could someone kill him, please, before we have to find out?”

“He’s more resilient than he looks,” Derek snaps, laying hands on the shapeshifter again and throwing him into the wall. Again. It’s like he’s not even trying.

Stiles grabs one of the legs of the fallen chair. It’s sharp. He ducks past Scott and steps past Derek, who’s just standing there, waiting for the shapeshifter to get up.

Stiles doesn’t wait. Stiles jumps on top of the shapeshifter where he’s awkwardly slumped against the wall, straddles him, and thrusts with the chair leg.

It’s not that sharp. As Stiles presses in and up with everything he has, there’s resistance of various viscosities. The shapeshifter punches him in the face, and he rocks back with the force of it, but the way he’s angled, it just pushes the chair leg further in. The shapeshifter’s eyes - Stiles’ eyes, exactly the same as he sees in the mirror every day - go wide, and he scrabbles at the chair leg.

He goes still. Stiles sits back, and looks at him, to make sure. And that’s his face, there, and his body impaled. He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until he sniffs hard and slimy mucus slips down his throat and he throws up. Stiles throws up all over the dead body that looks like him - the dead body he made dead.

He drags himself up and away, and Scott and Derek are still standing where he left them. “Kill your double, right?”

Scott had made both of them listen to Welcome To Night Vale while they drove around putting up posters, and he’s pretty sure Isaac made Derek keep listening, so they should be - amused, or something. Not looking at him like that. He’s shaking too badly to stand up to them looking at him like that. “So, we should -”

“You go shower,” Derek says. “Then go to your dad’s party before he misses you. Tell Isaac I need him. I’ll clean up.”

Scott trails Stiles up the stairs, half-puppy and half to make sure he doesn’t fall. They leave Derek in the basement, staring at the body with his arms crossed over his chest.

Stiles stops Scott when he’s about to follow him into the bathroom. “I’m good, buddy. You don’t actually need to watch me shower.”

“You sure?” Scott’s radiating concern.

Stiles doesn’t know quite what to do with it, doesn’t really want to deal with - feelings. “Just go. I’ll catch up. Thanks, dude.”

Scott hesitates, but leaves. In his wake Stiles strips methodically, trying not to pay attention to the blood on his clothes.  He turns on the water and doesn’t wait for it to get warm before he steps in, just steps in and starts washing mechanically. He’s got places to be, things to do, a murder to help hide from his dad. This isn’t different from any other day. It’s fine. He can deal.

His fingers are maybe a little numb, and his legs a little shaky, but he does not have time for this. His vision’s tunneling grey a little bit, but he does not have time for a panic attack. If he panics now, he won’t get to his dad, and then his dad will know, his dad will see he’s killed someone.

A knock sounds at the door, and Stiles nearly falls over. “Do you have a tarp?”

“No,” Stiles says, and it feels like the words come from a long way off. “Actually, maybe, in the garage?”

“Not a big deal, I guess. You’re out of garbage bags, by the way. And paper towels. You should probably hurry up if you want to get there by the time results come in.”

“Thanks, Derek,” Stiles croaks. Losing time as part of a panic attack trying to sneak in is the worst. He smacks his head against the shower wall once, deliberately, to encourage himself to snap out of it, and turns the water off.

By the time Stiles is dry and in cleanish clothes - ones that at least don’t have blood on them, even if they make Derek look a little judgy - Scott is there, Isaac in tow. It’s not a long drive, but Stiles had thought he was being quick, and he’s kind of uncomfortable at losing yet more control.

Isaac hugs him aggressively and scents him shamelessly, and it’s so rare that he’s anything other than a sarcastic douche that Stiles can only blink. “Okay, let’s go dispose of a body.”

It feels weird and terrible to do none of the cleanup, but Scott is shepherding Stiles towards his mom’s car, so Stiles just goes with it. Scott drives like someone’s half-blind grandparent, cautious at every intersection and five below the speed limit. They get there eventually anyway, light spilling out into the parking lot. There are a bunch of deputies there - most of the department who’s not on shift. No one likes that a fed from Sacramento is running opposite their Sheriff, even if the fed’s got local family.

There’s three booths and a table full of people there to support his dad, but there’s still a seat kept free for Stiles. Stiles slides in, closer than he would have if - closer than he would have yesterday. His dad is comforting.

The local cable channel is on both TVs, since it’s the only place covering the municipal election. Stiles’ dad claps a hand on his back right between his shoulder blades, and it’s warm and grounding as hell. “So, d’you win yet?”

About a quarter of the group laughs - only those who’d both been paying attention and remembered Stiles from before he started getting found at crime scenes. “Not yet, kid,” his dad says.

Mister Gorman stands up, gestures with his digital camera. “Now that you’re all here -”

Stiles and his dad and everyone else know that he means Scott. Scott knows, too, and leans into Stiles, camera-ready smile already on his face. Stiles slings an arm over his shoulder and leans into his dad, trying to smile brightly. Mister Gorman takes the picture, and it’ll probably be in the paper tomorrow.

Stiles pokes at breadsticks. His stomach is - not quite happy with him. Not like it’s had a chair leg through it, just really queasy. Results start coming in, and they all snap to attention. It’s not fierce, just intent: they’ll probably have a few minutes to wait as everything comes in. They don’t have to wait long, though, as it’s pretty clear from the get-go: Stiles’ dad has won by a landslide.

The announcer stumbles over the names of a couple of the school board members, and his hair is frizzier than it’d be allowed to be on a bigger news channel, but he basically looks like Chris Evans to Stiles when he’s announcing that Stiles hasn’t cost his dad his job. Stiles slings an arm around his dad’s neck, and Scott clutches his other hand hard, and things feel kind of good.

The party breaks up about an hour after the results are in: everyone’s got work the next day. Including his dad. It’s pretty great. Stiles and his dad help bus their tables, because they’re not actually dicks and the whole thing had been a favor. Well, Stiles is probably a dick. What with the whole murder thing.

His happiness drains away.

He digs out his phone to text Derek, but there’s already a text waiting for him.

All clear.

And thank God for Derek and his super-shady ability to clean up a crime scene without any of the actual cops getting called. Stiles texts him back, just thanks, and sits around as Scott takes off and his dad finishes up.

His dad drives him home in the cruiser, and Stiles feels awful looking at the house. He’s not particularly worried about his dad finding something, not with a super-sense-equipped cleanup crew. His dad had been devastatingly okay after the Peter thing, too. Not that they’d gone into detail about it. So really it’s just better if they keep this bit even more quiet and less detailed. Like not talking about it at all. That’s a great plan.

Stiles feels bruised all over as they go in, even though he’s not bruised at all. His dad drops his keys on the side table, and Stiles brings up the wards for the night - the ones no one can pass, which he doesn’t put up during the day or when his dad’s on night shift. He needs to come up with better ones, ones that’ll be up all the time and only let pass the people they specify.

His dad wanders vaguely into the kitchen, probably going for a beer. “Want to watch some TV?”

“Nah, I think I’m gonna go to bed,” Stiles says, and starts up the stairs. They’re more effort than usual, but his bed is just up the stairs, and he can put on sleep pants and get a jump start on his inevitable nightmares.

“Goodnight,” his dad calls.

“Night,” Stiles says, and then nearly shrieks, because Derek’s in his bedroom. He plasters a hand to his chest to still his racing heart. “What the hell, dude.”

Derek makes an aborted gestures towards him, like he’s going to reach out from across the room. “I just - wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“By _scaring me to death_?”

“No. I -”

Stiles waves him off. “No, whatever. Thanks, for -”

“Anything you need,” Derek interrupts, staring at Stiles intently. He’s just standing there, outlined in the light coming in from the window, but he doesn’t get any less intense when Stiles flicks on the light. He just blinks, then says, a little quieter, “Really, Stiles. I just want to - I take care of my pack.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says in the same quiet tone, relaxing into movement and toeing off his shoes. “I know. Still.”

Part of him - a huge, aching part - wants a hug from Derek, and possibly extended cuddling. Erica and Isaac both seem fine demanding it from him, but Stiles doesn’t want to impose. And Derek’s still at the window, like a statue or something.

The silence stretches, and Stiles doesn’t know what to do: he’s not comfortable changing in front of Derek, but he doesn’t want to ask him to leave. Doesn’t want him to leave at all, actually.

Derek’s the one who breaks the silence, shifting his weight uncomfortably and saying, “I should go.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, and goes to touch the outside wall next to him and drop the wards.

Derek wraps his hand around the back of Stiles’ neck, and leans their foreheads together. “You’ll be okay,” he says.

Then he disappears out the window like he’s the goddamn Batman and allergic to not having the last word.

Stiles sighs, and brings the wards back up. He jerks off thinking about Derek, and has to stuff his knuckles in his mouth to keep himself from making noise.

He sleeps almost five whole hours before a nightmare hits.


End file.
